


What We Talk About in Privacy

by F4wn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14156184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F4wn/pseuds/F4wn
Summary: "Lena Oxton had two hearts. One of them staring right at her, visible and vulnerable to the world presenting itself as a soft blue light anchored into her midsection."A short little one shot about family from a more canon point of view in the AU.





	What We Talk About in Privacy

**Author's Note:**

> I had worked on this a while back but never posted it because I'm lame and frightened of judgement but, I've always seen Lena to have a bit more of an outburst side that not many people have written about. Plus, I wanted to give her some more background. SO ANYWAY, enjoy my vision of Widowtracer talking about family. Maybe more will come for these lil one shots, who knows.

“Family?” she snorted, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The room was dim, lit by the sunrise seeping through the shutters above Lena Oxton’s bed.

“Yes, family,” the assassin purred with an accent that made Oxton weak. “It’s a foreign subject. I don’t recall family. Not now, not in my past.” Widowmaker’s slim fingers ran through the fair skinned girls bed ridden hair. Hardly bed ridden. It was always this messy. 

The glim in Lena’s eyes flickered for a moment, faltering. She turned on her side and stared at the woman beside her. Her enemy was making pillow talk with her. “I’d prefer not to talk about family,” she smirked, playfully climbing on top of her partner and mounting her. Lena never took top. Well, only once. And it went horribly wrong. Something along the lines of teeth clicking together and foreheads being slightly bruised for a week. Least to say, it wasn’t her thing. This, they both knew. 

Widowmaker sat up instantly, taking the girls wrists and pushing her back the least bit gently. “I want to know. I have to leave in 20. I’m making talk, you always talk. You’re annoying and the one time I want to talk; you want to touch? Not on my watch.” It was a demand. 

“What, luv? You suddenly see me more than just an item for touching?” the brit giggled, her freckles puddling together when she did so. “I gave you the time of your life last night. For…” her head turned to the side, checking the time on the nightstand beside them. “… what? 9 hours?” 

The sniper’s eyes narrowed at the girl in front of her, slowly releasing her wrists as if disgusted. 

“I just want to know. I want an image.” 

“Mine isn’t that good. My image wouldn’t give you the typical lovey family. ‘m not the girl to ask.”

“Your image is all I can get, it’s not as if I know any other obnoxious British girls with the ability to control their own time.” At this, she glanced down at Lena’s chest. It was ridden of the accelerator she used. At this point, Lena Oxton had two hearts. One of them staring right at her, visible and vulnerable to the world presenting itself as a soft blue light anchored into her midsection. 

Lena snorted again, making Widow’s brows knit. Her hand came up to the sniper’s chin, callused and overall rough, “You want to know about my family?”   
Widow nodded. 

Frowning, Lena shrugged. She slowly pulled herself away and got off the bed. She wasn’t entirely naked, only wearing a t-shirt and panties, Widow’s eyes trailing her every move. Partly to look her over. Hickey’s and claw marks spread across the fair skinned girls body, markings that made Widow proud. This was her person, the one she had in her palms. The other part was to make sure the girl didn’t barge out of the room and head to her next mission, a thing she’s done in the past. Widow punished her for it in the best of ways. 

“Fine. My family,” she muttered, headed down the hallway. A few seconds of shuffling noises and drawers being pulled, she returned. Lena flicked a polaroid her way, landing right in front of the woman who remained sitting in her bed. Widow’s eyes flickered between the girl and the polaroid, slowly fixing on the photo alone. It was of a young Lena, her eyes bright and proud giving the camera a toothy smile as she wore a military hat far too big for her head. Next to her was a boy that seemed 3 years older or so, he had his arms crossed and barely smiled. The resemblance to Lena was uncanny, clearly it was her brother with the same crazy bundle of hair. Behind them was a couple, a woman with long slick brunette hair and big brown eyes like Lena’s. Her skin, however, wasn’t as fair. She was tan, not entirely tan, but tanner than what you’d see for a woman whose lived in Britain her whole life. Beside her was a man, tall and professional. His hand rested proudly on his daughter’s shoulder as he gave the camera a mock salute, one that Lena often gives to her fellow Overwatch mates. 

“Hm. Your mother looks…” 

“A lot like me if my hair wasn’t the way it was,” she nodded, sitting at the edge of the bed.   
“And your father. He’s part of the military. Did he inspire you?”

Lena’s body posture usually gave a lot away, but as of now, she only stared at the photo. “You could say that.” 

“Tell me about them.” 

“Is a bloody photo not enough?” Her speech was blunt, unlike her usual mess of British slang and English mumbles. “I thought a picture was worth a thousand words,” she winked, instantly snapping back into her normal attitude. 

“I asked about your family. I didn’t ask for a photo.” Widowmaker set the picture down gently to the side. “It was a nice touch, though.” 

Lena huffed, blowing air out of her mouth. “Long story or short?”

“Long.”

“Might as well get comfortable, then.” The bed creaked as she moved out of her previous position. The sniper moved back, leaning up against the wall at the front of the bed. Headboards were too unnecessary for Lena’s lifestyle, she supposed. 

“My family…” the brit started, “Well. I grew up here in Kings Row. My father was part of the, uh. Of the air force you could say. My mother, she was a working woman last I checked…” a small, sad, laugh escaped her mouth. Clearing her throat, she continued. “And my brother, well. He didn’t do much. Only saw things in black and white. Family raised him that way, I suppose… My father, he uh, died. Died fast, actually. I was 14 when he passed. Nosedived into a rock with a jet, whole world saw.” 

Widow’s eyes landed on the girl’s hands, watching them grip the bedspread tight.   
“Anyway. My father passed away. Mother was heartbroken, so my brother took lead of the house as the man should,” she rolled her eyes as if the traditional idea irked her. “This of course put him as the head honcho of the house. He was still in high school. He wasn’t terribly smart. But my mother couldn’t get out of bed, and if she did it was straight down the path to the pub where I’d have to pull several men off of her and lay her to sleep while she mumbled blurbs about how much she loved being touched…” Lena’s tongue clicked, pressed against her cheek. “As I grew up, I fell more and more in love with planes. My father’s accident didn’t scare me. I missed him dearly, but not everyone has the same fate, ya know? Well, not exactly the same fate.” Another laugh. Widow could only assume she meant Lena’s personal accident with the slipstream. 

“So, as my brother ran house and my mother drank her liver to death and sent herself to the hospital a monthly basis, I learned how to fly. I worked day and night at the same pub my mother went to. Made a deal with the owner, and it worked out. I got to watch over her and make sum pounds while I was at it. Turned it into a job as sad as that is.” She finally looked away from the bedsheets, at the wall now. “My instructor was an older man named Phillip. He taught me with his own jet. I was only 16 but he told me I had the best skills he’d ever have the privilege to sharpen. So I flew with him and learned. My brother, he thought I was out with a boyfriend I made up. ‘Das right, I was closeted.” She scrunched her nose and laughed, shaking her head at herself. “When I turned 20, Phillip passed away. He had no family. He left me his jet for god knows what reason. It was an expensive thing to take care of, to rent space for at the local farms outside of the city. But it was worth it, for I became an amazing pilot. One that Overwatch recognized, giving me this nifty gadget.” Lena Oxton’s voice quivered, acknowledging her own disability for a moment. 

Widowmaker actually felt like reaching out to the girl, telling her to stop talking. It was clear this subject was going elsewhere. But she didn’t. For some reason, Widow wanted to hear this.

“Overwatch took me in to do some simulators. I was taken under the wing by your husband, Gerard Lacroix.” 

The sniper adjusted, finally speaking. “Not my husband. He was hers.”

“Right, right. Whatever,” she dismissed, “Gerard reminded me of Philip. He made me proud of myself, though I’m pretty sure I was more so a puppy in his eyes than a fearless fighter. But I had skill that no one could deny. Simulator after simulator, he told me I was ready. I was ready to fly this bloody big nifty jet titled ‘The Slipstream’”, her hands spread across in front of her, making an imaginary banner. “And so I agreed. I agreed without informing what remained of my family. When I got home, my mum was passed out on the couch, drooling with a bottle at the tip of her fingers. The house was a mess and my brother, well, he wasn’t anywhere to be found. So, I left a note...” Lena’s eyes drifted towards Widow’s golden stare. “A note,” she laughed out. “Who bloody fucking leaves a NOTE?” She said this as if it was hysterical, continuing to laugh, trying to gain herself back. “I mean, you’d think for someone who could fly jets for hours on end, they’d be able to wait to say goodbye… right? To their own family? I guess not.” 

Widowmaker raised her eyebrows, seeing her like this was unusual. Not that she was always composed, but she wasn’t in her right mind as she spoke. She was mentally scattered. 

“I returned back to Overwatch the same night and told Gerard I would be ready in the morning. Smack dab, sharp and alert… So morning came. He gave me a scarf his wife made, told me it was for good luck.” Her eyes met Widow’s once again, pressing her lips together for a moment. “Wasn’t very lucky, but it was fashionable I have to give you that.” 

“I’m not her-” she started to repeat before Lena cut her off.

“And so the slipstream accident happened. Nosedived, straight down before the jet suddenly disappeared in front of the entire world, taking the young pilot with it. You know the story afterwards. Gerard died, his wife disappeared. Winston and Angela brought me back, PTSD, depression, all that good stuff.”

“And your family?”

A moment of silence spread between them. “They uh. They think I’m dead. It’s better… that way. Mum wouldn’t recognize me, she’s too drunk to see me as anything other than her 14-year-old child before her husband died. She’s stuck in time,” her pun disgusted Widow, but Lena said it as if it was the cleverest thing. “As for my brother, I wouldn’t know. I don’t care to know. We never got along. Said he disliked me for never being around. The simple fact was, I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand the house. I wasn’t who I am today, I wasn’t who I actually am…” 

It took another moment, but she suddenly hopped up, stretching her arms out and yawning obnoxiously. The brit skipped over to the side and slipped her shirt off, pulling over her gear and eventually putting on her accelerator.

“It’s time for us to part,” she smiled at the woman, the same toothy smile the younger Lena gave in the polaroid. Suddenly the girl was in front of her with a blink from the accelerator, pecking the assassin’s lips. “See ya on the battle field, yeah?” 

And away she went, leaving her enemy in her bed, completely alone and utterly comfortable. “I didn’t sign up for this,” the French woman spoke to herself, tangling herself out of the bedsheets. Glancing at the nightstand where her cat suit was thrown across. She gripped it and pulled it on, heading out the door before glancing back at the photo. “But you’re by far the most interesting pest I know, Chérie.”


End file.
